The Hole in My Life Shaped Like You
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Dean's missing something, he just can't quite put his finger on what...


**The Hole in My Life Shaped Like You**  
K Hanna Korossy

Dean staggered in the door and dropped his keys on the table, rubbing his eyes. What was he—?

Right. There'd been beer. A lot. And a girl. Maybe two. A smile flickered across his face: must've been a good time if he could barely remember it. All he wanted to do now was sleep. He grabbed the duffel and headed into the bathroom.

The shaving kit was on top, but under that…conditioner? Had some chick left her stuff there and he'd packed it by mistake? Dean grunted, shoving it aside, looking for a clean tee. And found—

"A hoodie? Seriously?" Was this even his bag? He pulled back, examined it. Sure looked like the ones he and Dad used. Dean sobered: well, that Dad _had_ used. Before he'd died and left Dean all alone.

"Screw that," Dean muttered, yanking out the girly hoodie and dropping it into the trash can. Flannel shirts and a few white tees were folded underneath it, and while he couldn't remember the last time he'd folded something, he wasn't gonna complain. He pulled it on, noting with a frown that it was a little loose on him—he thought he'd finally stopped losing weight—then shrugged and turned away to get a drink of water to lessen the hangover that would surely come the next day.

His reflection stared back at him, hollow-eyed, unshaven. The lines of his face seemed harder than he remembered, the dark of his eyes colder. He was turning into his dad, and Dean barked an unamused laugh. Well, why not? The old man had had nothing else to give him. Dean drank deep from the metallic-tasting tap water, then snapped off the light and returned to the room, shucking his jeans as he went.

There were two beds. He didn't remember that, either, but sometimes doubles were all they had left. Dean shrugged, dropping the duffel onto the neatly made bed on the right and flopping onto his own. He couldn't recall why he'd picked the one by the door when it was common sense to be as far from point of entry as you could be to increase reaction time if something busted in. But whatever. Not like it really mattered. And memory was a bitch, anyway. So what if he didn't really remember getting the room or what he'd done since? Tomorrow he'd figure out what he was there to hunt and he'd pay full attention…to…

Something was playing.

Music. "Smoke on the Water."

His phone.

Dean lifted his face groggily from the pillow, wincing in the full sunlight that was now pouring through the blinds. "Wha—? Crap." Probably Singer with a job for him, or maybe Jeff wondering if he was in the neighborhood. Neither was someone he cared to talk to when he was hung over and dead on his feet, but he fumbled for his jacket and the phone in the pocket anyway. This was his job, right? All he had left.

The music stopped before Dean could locate the jacket, but it started up again as he snagged the clothing off the floor. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered as he fished the stupid phone out and stared at the screen. Unfamiliar number. Awesome. If it was someone trying to sell him a time-share, they'd be getting an earful.

He clicked Accept and put the phone to his ear. "What?"

There was a pause. Then, hesitantly, _"Is this Dean?"_

Unfamiliar voice, too, at least as far as Dean could recall. On the plus side, they knew his name. On the minus, he didn't really like it when people he didn't know knew his name. "Yeah, who's this?"

_ "My name's Mark. Mark Ciprio. You don't know me but, uh, my wife and I were out hiking and…we came across your brother." _

Dean snorted, rubbing his eyes as a jolt of pain lanced through his head. Friggin' whiskey shots. "You've got the wrong person."

_"But…"_ There was a moment of whispered discussion in the background, then Mark returned. _"You're Dean Winchester, right? You have a brother named Sam?"_

They knew not just his name but his full name. Dean felt a chill pass through him. "Listen, buddy—"

Sam. He'd said _Sam._

The nova of pain in his skull choked him, and Dean dropped the phone with a groan, curling forward to jam his hands against his temples. It felt like someone was carving something out of his brain.

Or ramming it back in.

Sam, Sam, Sammy, _Sam, "This is your little brother," "Take your brother outside," "Look after your brother," "Do anything for your brother," "He's my brother"…_

Oh, God. He'd forgotten Sam. How could he forget Sam?

Agony dulled to mere misery, enough that Dean could breathe in sharp pants again, brain foggy but clearing. The memories rushed back like someone had busted open a dam: trekking into the woods to find the cave of the drake Jeff had killed one county over, Sam going stiff and then just…vanishing, the wiry little creature that had appeared at the same time to grin at Dean and answer his hot demands with a simple, "You'll never miss him." And then…

He'd stumbled into the room, and a life without Sam.

Dean's stomach heaved up into his throat.

_ "Hello? Are you there? Dean?"_

The phone called him, tinny and distant, from his feet, and Dean swallowed hard, picking it up with cold fingers. "I'm here. Where is he? Is he okay?" How long had it been, anyway? It'd been morning when they'd hiked in, he'd come back to the room at night, it was light again now. Just one day, or more? He didn't know, hadn't been looking, hadn't even _missed_—

_"His feet are pretty torn up—he says he was walking through the woods for a long time and he didn't have shoes or, uh, any clothes on. But he's okay. He said we shouldn't call the Rangers, that you'd come pick him up?"_

"Yeah." Dean's voice cracked and he tried again. "Yes. I'm coming. Tell him I'm on my way." He was already moving, jamming his legs into his jeans one-handed, then boots without socks, glancing around for his keys. No time for his duffel…or Sam's, sitting innocently on Sam's bed where Dean had left it after ransacking it. "Uh," he paused, "where are you?"

The Ciprios hadn't been camping too deeply in the woods, and they'd escorted Sam back to the nearest trail head by the time Dean arrived. That was still almost a half-hour away, and Dean chewed his lip bloody during the drive, wondering just how far Sam had walked, where he'd been, and, oh yeah, how Dean could have just _forgotten _he had a little brother.

Then he saw Sam and forgot his little memory lapse, if for the time being.

"Sammy."

The bedraggled figure raised its head.

For a moment, Dean wanted to laugh. It was obvious the Ciprios had tried to help clothe him, but Mark was clearly not a big guy. The shirt Sam was wearing only went to mid-forearm and strained uncomfortably over his big shoulders and biceps. He hadn't even attempted to button it. Pants were a lost cause altogether, and Sam had a plaid blanket wrapped around his waist instead, like some forlorn Scotsman. His feet were clad in too-small flip-flops, hasty field bandages poking out in between rubber and flesh.

That sobered Dean fast. That and the exhaustion that clung to Sam like a visible thing, bowing his back and clouding his eyes. When relief cleared the lines from his face at the sight of Dean, he felt humbled.

"Sammy," he breathed, and moved forward to touch, to cement what his eyes were telling him.

Sam tried to rise from the picnic bench he was sitting on, but he didn't get far. Forget exhausted: the kid was clearly running on empty, dregs of wariness and determination the only thing keeping him from bottoming out completely. His eyes slipped gratefully shut as Dean reached him and put a hand on his shoulder.

Dean quickly slid it to the back of his neck, gripping lightly. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

Sam's head bobbled a yes.

It felt worryingly like his hold was the only thing keeping Sam from pitching over, and Dean took a step closer, hip nudging up against Sam's shoulder. Sam's forehead instantly dropped against Dean's stomach and stayed there.

"Uh." Dean looked up, found a middle-aged couple—the Ciprios, no doubt—watching them with equal parts concern and _awww_, and he cleared his throat. "So you just…found him wandering around in the woods?"

"Came stumbling out of nowhere," Mark offered, "naked as a blue jay. Didn't have much of an explanation—we figured maybe he'd hit his head."

"Or something happened to him and he has that STD."

"PTSD," Mark corrected his wife. "She means PTSD," he quickly repeated to Dean.

"Right," Dean said slowly. Sam's breathing had already shifted into sleep.

"We wanted to call for help, but he—Sam—said his brother would take care of it." Mark hesitated. "You, uh, you are his brother, right?"

"What?" Dean startled, then remembered the beginning of their phone conversation. "Yes! Yes, absolutely. I'm his brother." He scruffed Sam lightly, and felt his brother sigh against his t-shirt. Dean hadn't had a chance to even pull a flannel shirt on over it.

Speaking of which, it was pretty cool outside, and neither of them were exactly dressed for the weather. Sam's skin felt chilly under Dean's fingers, and he was shivering faintly. Dean had no idea how long he'd been outside like that, but he needed to warm up and get checked out, make sure his feet were okay and nothing else was wrong.

"Listen, I should take him…home. We owe you for any of these…?" He waved at Sam's get-up.

"No. Oh, no, that's fine. Glad we could help. He's a nice young man," Mrs. Ciprio—he'd never caught her first name—said with a smile. "You take care of him now."

"I will," Dean vowed, then slid his hand down to pat Sam on the back. "Hey. Sammy. You ready to get out of here?"

Sam muttered something and pressed his face more firmly into Dean's midriff.

Guilt ate a little more of Dean's composure. "Yeah, okay. C'mon, Sasquatch, let's get you home." He crouched down, getting under Sam's arm, coaxing him to his feet and into motion.

In the end, Mark helped, which was probably a good thing considering that even though Sam's eyes had reopened, nobody seemed to be home. Despite the pain his feet had to be in, he blinked hazily at the passing scenery and nodded against Dean's shoulder at whatever Dean said.

"Tell the nice people goodbye," Dean finally ordered as he swung Sam's legs in—blood, he noted darkly, there was blood on the bandages on his feet—and shucked his own jacket off.

"Erlky," Sam whispered, head drooping.

"Close enough." Dean wedged the jacket against the side of Sam's neck and shut the door, watching approvingly as Sam immediately sagged to the side and fell back to sleep mashed against jacket and window. He looked up at the Ciprios once he was convinced Sam was settled. "Seriously, thank you. If you hadn't been there—"

"Thank God we were," Mrs. Ciprio quickly chirped. "If you need anything else…" She nudged her husband, who jumped, then said _oh!_ and dug a business card out.

Dean put it away without looking at it. "Thank you," he said again. He glanced at Sam and hurried around the car. "Uh, have a nice day," he offered to the still-watching couple.

They smiled back. They kinda reminded him of that comic strip pair, Hi and Lois. Unreal, the people Sam picked up along the way…

Sam stirred as Dean turned the engine over. "Erlky…" he murmured again before yawning widely and slipping back under.

"Right. Erlking," Dean agreed. He waved to the Ciprios when they waved at him, then put the car into Drive. "I know, Sammy." He'd recognized the little creature once he remembered him. Erlkings were notorious for snatching folks out of the woods, apparently with a chaser of amnesia for those left behind so they wouldn't cause any trouble. What they weren't so famous for was letting their prisoners go.

Sam sighed, relaxing now that he obviously finally felt safe, and started to snore.

Dean reached over and adjusted his jacket pillow so he was breathing easier, an oft-practiced move, then mimicked his sigh. "Yeah, I don't know what we're gonna do about it, either."

One thing was sure, though. He wasn't letting Sam out of his sight, or his thoughts, again.

00000

For all Sam's fatigue, he was still a hunter. As soon as Dean turned the engine off, his brother jolted awake, hands darting out to brace against the dash.

"Whoa, easy." Dean's own hand quickly splayed against Sam's chest like some kind of soccer mom, protecting against emotional crashing instead of physical. "Just back at the room."

Sam blinked hard a few times, scrunching his eyes shut and then opening them wide. He pinched his nose, swallowed, and quickly nodded. "Right. Right, the motel."

Dean eyed him with concern. "You ready to tell me now what happened out there?"

Sam shook his head quickly, but it was clearing cobwebs, not denial. "Um…can we go inside first, please? My feet are killing me, and I could drink, like, a keg of water."

"Yeah, sure," Dean agreed immediately. He climbed out and jogged around, just in time to swing Sam's door wide as he struggled to open it. Kid still had a ways to go, nap or no. Dean tried not to hover, but when Sam started to get out and went pale as soon as he put his weight on his right foot, all bets were off. Dean hefted him out and propped him up, letting Sam lean heavily on him instead of taking all his own weight.

When he got him inside and on the bed, feet unwrapped, he could see why Sam had faltered.

Dean whistled low as he studied the torn soles, crusted with dried blood and embedded with debris. "How far did you walk on these?"

"I dunno, ten miles maybe?" Sam shrugged and took another gulp of the bottle of water Dean had fetched him, draining it. He drooped back against the headboard.

Dean handed him another. "And you did it bare-assed because…"

Sam gave him a withering look and tried to twist the cap off the new bottle. "The erlking took me some place and…guess he could only take _me_, you know?" He made a face as Dean took the bottle away and opened it for him. "Honestly, I didn't even realize it until that couple gave me some stuff to wear."

Dean frowned at the implication of how much Sam's mind had been messed with, too. "And it just…let you go." He lifted Sam's feet off the bed and slid a towel underneath them.

Sam, God love him, blushed. "I, uh. I tricked it."

Dean's eyebrows rose even as he started to unpack the med kit. "Come again?"

"I said I had some treasure I would get for it if it let me go."

Dean _huh_-ed. Erlkings were the riches-happy relatives of fairies, but they were usually smarter than that. "And it bought it?"

Sam yawned widely, his eyes already heavy again. "I guess. Found some agrimony to keep it from coming after me." His hand—Dean only just now noticed it had been curled shut all this time—unfolded to reveal some crumpled, drying leaves.

Dean laughed. "Dude, only you would think about picking flowers before finding clothes."

Sam's shoulder hitched. "Like Dad said…make sure you're safe before…" He trailed off into sleep, chin tipped down almost to his chest.

Dean's chest tightened. He leaned forward to gently tip Sam's head back more comfortably against the headboard, and studied his slack face. Even now he could remember the desolate loneliness at the thought that Dad had died and left him totally alone. It seemed impossible that he could have forgotten Sam, the most precious thing Dad _had _left him, the one who'd made all the other losses in Dean's life bearable. How could he have not known, not sensed that gigantor-shaped hole? Or maybe he had and that had been part of the hopelessness.

Shaking his head, Dean opened the bottle of topical anesthetic and went to work.

One foot was cleaned and bandaged and Dean had moved on to the second one when there was the distant sound of windblown leaves.

He paused, head tilted, listening as it drew closer. Eyes widening as he suddenly realized where he'd heard that before.

"Crap. Sam!" Dean stood up to shake his brother awake.

That was when the motel room door blew in.

Sometimes it was the most innocuous-looking things that had the most power. The small, twig-like creature that rolled through the door wasn't foreboding in the least, but the power that crackled off it made the hair on Dean's arms prickle. _Angry _power.

"I'm here for what's mine," it announced in a voice deeper than something its size should possess.

Sam toppled off the bed with a yelp; Dean guessed even his exhausted brother couldn't sleep through that entrance. Well, that would just make this easier.

Even as Sam struggled to gain his feet, Dean shot around the bed and hauled him up. Flattening his flailing brother against the wall with his back, Dean faced the erlking. "Don't know what you're talking about," he answered it.

The small creature's eyes narrowed. "I let you go once, Dean Winchester. Don't be tempting me to take you, too."

Sam squirmed behind him, but Dean just pressed back harder. Thankfully, Sam was still too weak to push him away. Dean tilted his head thoughtfully. "Yeah, think I'll pass on that."

"Your brother, however, comes with me."

Dean felt Sam's hand close around his arm just above his elbow, grip surprisingly tight. The kid was shivering again, and Dean didn't think it was from the cold this time. His jaw shifted. "I don't think so."

The erlking stepped closer, eyes blazing. "I wasn't asking, human."

"Not happening," Dean said stonily.

"Dean…" came softly from behind him.

"Shut up, Sam."

"So be it," the erlking sneered, and moved forward almost faster than Dean could see.

Not faster than he could react, however.

The iron bar he'd brought in from the car and snatched up at the erlking's arrival, caught the creature full across the chest. It was an effective weapon in itself, but Dean was hoping that erlkings didn't like cold iron any more than their fairy cousins.

It looked like he was right, the way the powerful creature went flying across the room to smack against the far wall and crumple to the floor.

From the room next door, someone banged back on the wall.

Dean curled his mouth slowly upward, hefting his weapon but keeping his place. From the weight Sam was resting on him, Dean was pretty sure he was the only thing keeping Sam on his feet. Still, he bounced on the balls of his feet, ready for round two. "We done here yet?"

The erlking had jumped back to its feet, face contorted in rage. "You think that will stop me from claiming what's mine? Stupid human," it sneered and drew itself up to his full diminutive height. It was more intimidating than it should have been.

"You let me go," Sam suddenly spoke up.

The erlking and Dean both turned to look at him, Dean craning back with a frown. "What—?"

"You promised me treasure," the erlking retorted.

"I didn't promise," Sam said. His hand clamped onto Dean's shoulder, and for a moment he thought it was to keep him from interrupting, but then he felt how hard Sam was hanging on, how badly he was shaking. "I offered to bring some and you let me go. No deal was made."

The erlking's eyes narrowed.

"And I remember now," Dean found himself speaking up. He hoped Sam wouldn't take this wrong. "I'm not gonna just let him go."

The erlking looked back and forth between the two of them, assessing, calculating.

"C'mon," Dean said impatiently, "doesn't the fact that he tricked you earn him some points?"

That got him another hard look. Then, to his surprise, the creature gave him a grudging smile. "You speak well, you Winchesters. Your father's sons you are."

He could feel Sam's surprise against his back, felt his own heart speed up. "You—?"

"You may go. But don't be entering my woods again," the erlking continued, small finger jabbing Dean's way. The next second, it was gone.

Dean was pretty sure his jaw was hanging open. "Did it… Was that just…?"

"Pretty sure," Sam murmured. His forehead bumped Dean's shoulder. "Dean…"

He turned and dropped the crowbar just in time to catch his brother.

00000

They should pick up a soldering iron. Dean contemplated the loose wire and the circuit board it was no longer attached to. He'd been able to fix a fray and another broken connection, but the last wire would need a soldering iron, and that was something they could totally use. It would fit in Dad's toolbox tucked in the back…

"What're you doing?"

Sam's voice cracked midway through and still sounded weak, but Dean was smiling as he turned to the source. "Fixing the radio. You know, since I'm stuck in the room all day with Rip Van Winkle."

"Pretty sure Rip never went up against an erlking," Sam said, yawning as he stretched. He flipped the blanket off his body and studied his sock-clad feet, lumpy from the bandages beneath. Apparently satisfied, he pushed a hand through his hair and glanced around. "There any food?"

Dean chuckled and set the radio down, going to the kitchenette to retrieve a bag from the mini-fridge. "Have I ever let you starve?"

Sam didn't bother answering, digging into the bag as soon as Dean handed it over. What he lacked in still-returning energy, he made up for with enthusiasm as he pulled out a sandwich, unwrapped it, and took a big bite. He groaned with pleasure, eyes fluttering shut.

"Dude, you're making me a little uncomfortable here," Dean teased, but it was good to see Sam enjoying food.

Another big bite and half the sandwich was gone. "Man, I can't remember when I last ate," Sam said around a full mouth.

"Yeah, I'm guessing Earl didn't feed you." Dean set the radio back on the nightstand, silently promising to finish fixing it as soon as he could get out to a hardware store. "You feelin' okay? No aftereffects of…" He waved vaguely, encompassing Sam's injuries, the way he was still slumped in bed. It had rattled him when Sam had gone down like a sack of bricks, but his vitals had remained strong and Dean figured the exposure to fairy magic and the elements, not to mention exhaustion and some blood loss, had finally taken their toll. "When you fainted—"

Sam gave him a mulish look. "Dean—"

"Okay, _passed out. _Still scared the crap out of me," he muttered.

Sam, the girl, immediately looked contrite. "Sorry."

"You should be—you know how hard it was to get that shirt off? Like some kind of friggin' doll clothes." He wouldn't be telling Sam that the hoodie he was wearing had been reclaimed from the bathroom trash. "And, dude, there was _nothing on_ under the blanket. I'm seriously scarred."

Sam was flushing red as he buried himself in the bag, looking for more food, and an escape from the conversation.

"And I didn't even remember you," Dean continued in the same outraged tone, because if he stopped to think, he'd never get it out.

It took a second, but Sam's head popped up.

Dean raised a hand and dropped it. "It said I wouldn't miss you and…I didn't. Didn't even remember I had a brother until Hi and Lois called."

"Who?"

"Doesn't matter—dude, did you hear me? I _forgot _you. I wasn't even drunk." His mouth twisted into a pained grin.

He expected hurt. Anger, maybe. Disappointment for sure. But all Sam was looking at him with was sympathy. "That's what you were talking about," he said softly. "About remembering now."

"Yeah." Dean brushed some possibly imaginary lint off his jeans.

"It wouldn't have made a difference," Sam said, face all earnest. "I had to get away on my own."

"And walk through miles of forest barefoot?" Dean asked pointedly.

"Okay, yeah, I thought you were looking for me. I always expect you to come after me, all right? But only if you can, man, and I'm pretty sure magical amnesia counts as not being able to."

It didn't seem like enough absolution, but Sam apparently thought it was. And everyone knew who the brains of the team was. Dean took a breath and pulled his journal in front of him from where it had sat on his pillow. "Did some digging—checked undelivered mail and papers, abandoned homes and jobs. Looks like at least five people have disappeared in the area without ever being reported missing."

"They never turned up?" Sam asked quietly.

"Nope."

They sat in silence a minute. "Bobby know a way to kill an erlking?" Sam spoke again.

"He's working on it. And Jeff's heading over with a few buddies to take care of it."

Sam gave him a look but, to Dean's surprise—and relief—just nodded. He dug another sandwich out of the bag and unwrapped it, eating more slowly this time. "Five people, huh?" he finally said between bites.

"Yeah," Dean affirmed cautiously.

Sam nodded. "Guess none of them had a brother stupid enough to stand between them and a ticked-off magical being with only a crowbar." He managed to smirk even while chewing.

"It was a cold-iron crowbar," Dean said petulantly.

But yeah, he got it. _I always expect you to come after me. _And he wasn't forgetting it.

**The End**


End file.
